


Restrictive

by boyofscissors



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst to come, Anorexia, Anorexic Sherlock, Anorexic!Sherlock, Anxiety Disorder, Body Image, Depression, How Do I Tag, I should be doing homework, M/M, Moriarty is Alive, My favorite series, binged watched literally all the episodes in day, high-functioning sociopath, i am so so sorry, love this show, moriarty might come, orthorexia, orthorexia needs to be talked about
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 19:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14479767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boyofscissors/pseuds/boyofscissors
Summary: Name:Holmes, Sherlock.Diagnoses:Depression, Anxiety, Anorexia Nervosa, Sociopath.Patient Notes:Stay in mental ward for six weeks at the least. Persistent to leave. Refuses feeding tube. Will only accept Dr. John Watson's treatment input.





	1. FOOD

"Hello, Sherlock."

"John."

A silence of tired staring passed over them like an ocean wave, until John broke it.

"It's morning." John informed Sherlock, slowly stating each word.

“Well aren’t you keen, Watson.” Sherlock teased as he continued to look through an old book he had found.

“Why aren’t you eating if you know it’s time to? You’re always eating breakfast by the time I wake up.” John asked, expecting to hear Sherlock simply explain that he had already ate.

“Not hungry.”

John felt suspicious of Sherlock’s “lack” of hunger. Sherlock looked up from his book as he had noticed John hadn’t responded.

“You sure you’re not hungry? I can make you something if you want.” John suggested.

“No, I’m fine, John.” Sherlock reminded John, dismissing him.

  
  


A few hours later, as Sherlock and John raced down the streets to a crime-scene not too far away from where they lived, John noticed how Sherlock became increasingly tired. Sherlock stopped for a second to rest as John caught up with him.

“We can call a cab if you want.” John suggested.

“No...I-I’m fine...John...really…” Sherlock told him in between breathing and panting like a dog.

“Come on, Sherl. We’re getting a cab.” John insisted.

“John, I am  _ fine. _ ” Sherlock spat at John, standing up began running again to the crime-scene, even though he was obviously pushing himself hard to keep up what would have been his average running speed.

The crime-scene was directly in front of a bakery. Someone had been murdered while leaving the bakery, but they hadn’t taken any valuables from the body. It was a hit-and-run. The victim was a young female, about fifteen or sixteen in age, about five foot three, pixie-cut dark brown and blue hair, wearing black skinny jeans, white converse, several necklaces around her neck, as well as many bracelets up her arms, and wore a gray crop-top that showed off her flat stomach. She was shot right above her stomach, just in her ribs.

“What do you think happened?” John asked Sherlock, who was still panting even though he tried hard to hide it.

As Sherlock ran through possible scenarios in his head, the thought of the girl’s thin body kept recurring. He thought about how her stomach was so flat, how it caved in because she was lying on her back. How her thighs would never touch, even if she had her feet together. She had died looking so thin and graceful looking.

_ Fantasizing about a dead teenager?! Really?! _ , Sherlock thought to himself.

But she looked so… elegant, even if she was dead, bleeding out on the street, and a freaking teenager, she still was what Sherlock thought was perfect. What he wanted to be.

“Sherlock.”

“Yes, John?” Sherlock snapped back to reality, where he was still fat and nowhere near what he wanted.

“I asked if you have an idea of what happened.” John told him.

“Well, she’s approximately sixteen, she never drank alcohol. Her direction of were she was planning to go was to a library to read poetry. Her name was Kitzen Callol. She had been surprised by the gunman. But… she had known the guman… ” Sherlock trailed off, trying to dissect the girl’s face, which was frozen in a moment of both realization, and terror.

“You have a timeline?” a policeman asked.

“She had entered the bakery several minutes before 2:13 p.m., which was her time of death, approximately 2:00. Ms. Collol had ordered a coffee. Paid for it, the cashier tried to make conversation, but failed. A man had cat-called her earlier, before she arrived here, making her uncomfortable and second-guessing her coming here. She spent nine minutes ordering and waiting until here drink was done, went outside to wait until she could cross the road, leaving us with a four minute time gap between when she left this bakery, and when she was shot.” Sherlock stated proudly.

“We have several witnesses if you’d like to interview them.” the officer suggested.

“Of course I will.” Sherlock snapped.

 

“She wis pure sweet, bit pure timorous. She didnae blether tae me, except whin she ordered her coffee. Some guy juist jumpt richt infront o' her 'n' shot her deid. She didnae hae a single chance.” the barista said in a thick Scottish accent anyone could barely understand.**

“She came here often, didn’t she?” Sherlock pressed.

“She cam 'ere ilka Wensday; richt efter she git oot o' schuil. She traivelt tae 'ere, then tae a library. Ah jalouse she wid gang hame efter that. A dinnae ken that muckle aboot her. Ah wid ask her simple questions, juist tae be freendly, 'n' she wid answer bluntly. She ne'er stairted a chat wi' me, bit ah sure as hell tried tae mak' chat wi' her!“** the barista laughed. She was about twenty-six or so, extremely Scottish, and a bit plump.

“Thank you. That is all I need.” Sherlock dismissed her.

 

“Well?” John asked as Sherlock walked back outside to the crime-scene.

“Scottish.” Sherlock answered, making John laugh.

“Well, they said they’d give us a call for when we can formally examine the body. Do you want to go out somewhere to eat?” John asked.

“No, thank you, John. I’m not that hungry.”

“Come on, Sherl. How could you not be hungry? You didn’t eat this morning or throughout the day. At all!” 

“I’m just not hungry today.” Sherlock shrugged.

“Well, you don't have to eat, but you’re coming with me.” John was starting to get agitated with him now.

“Fine. But I swear I won’t like it.” Sherlock crossed his arms like a child.

“You big baby.” John muttered.

 

 

**If you are having trouble understanding what the Scottish dialogue is, here are the translations:

"She was sweet, but shy. She didn't talk to me, except when she ordered coffee. Some guy just jumped right in front of her and shot her dead. She didn't have a single chance."

And:

"She came here every Wednesday; right after school. She walked here, then to a library. I guess she went home after that. I don't know much about her. I would ask her simple questions, just to be friendly, and she would answer bluntly. She never started conversations, but I sure as hell tried to started conversations with her!"

I only wrote a Scottish character in because it was fun!!


	2. DINNER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really sorry about basically fading into nonexistence! I'm gonna try to post regularly and try to post actual quality stories and stuff like that.
> 
> Sorry for a really shitty and short chapter.

Dinner with John was painful. Watching John eating, only staring.

_ Calm down, Holmes. Just a little longer and you can have a little bit of food. Just one more hour. _

It was all painful, and for what? Thinner arms? Thinner face? Thinner stomach? Thin, thin, thin, thin.

But what about recovery? That would be even more painful. To have all that hard work thrown away? That’s it. No recovery. He would live thin, and die thinner. 

“Sherl? You okay there?” John asked finally, breaking Sherlock out of his thought.

“Yes, I’m fine. Don’t worry.” Sherlock tried to smile, but he could tell John wasn’t convinced.

“Do you want to go home? I won’t mind.” John offered a smile, but Sherlock didn’t return it. He was too tired. Starvation was tiring him faster than he thought it would.

“Come on. Let’s just go.”

“Okay, John.” Sherlock mumbled.

  
  


**Two Months Later**

  
  


“Hey, Sherlock, do wanna go out to eat tonight?” John asked while reading a book.

“No, thank you, John. I’m busy.” Sherlock might have said that a bit too fast.

“Are we on a case?” John asked.

“No, but I’d like to do some research.”

“Well, after you’re done, we should go out to eat. We haven't done that in ages.” John offered.

He should say no, say he didn't have the time, but John wasn't an idiot. He’d know something was wrong and would pester Sherlock until he’d say something. He would just have to suffer through dinner until he could have the chance to burn it all off.

“Okay. sounds… fun.” Sherlock gave John a grin, which made John happy.

 

“Salad, thank you.”

“That all?” John asked.

“Not very hungry today.”

“Okay…”

Dinner with John was always fun. Fun when you don’t watch every little thing that will eventually have to go in your mouth, down your throat, and in you stomach. Sherlock had ordered a salad, but he had eaten eighty calories today, and a salad would just be more calories to count. 

Throughout all of dinner, Sherlock did his best to give the illusion he had been eating; he rearranged everything on his plate, he put it in his mouth and spat it out in his napkin, he even went so low as to put it his pockets when John wasn’t looking. He didn’t want any of it to reach his stomach.

“Sherl, don’t pick at your food and eat, please.” John told Sherlock.

“John can we please leave?” Sherlock asked, slamming his fork down on the table.

“Why?” John asked, surprised at Sherlock’s sudden standing up.

Sherlock didn’t say anything. He had picked up his jacket and marched out of the restaurant. It took John a few seconds to catch up to him.

“Sherlock! What in hell is going on?!” John yelled as they walked back to the flat.

“Nothing, John! I’m fine!” Sherlock spat back.

“No! No. You’re not!” John tried calming down, but he couldn’t.

“Leave me alone!”

“Hell yeah I won’t! Not until you tell me!”

“Damn you!” 

Sherlock started running. Not in the direction of the flat, not in the direction of anywhere except anywhere. He wanted everything to just stop and leave him alone!


	3. REPERCUSSION

By the time Sherlock finally decided to return to Baker Street after his explosion on John, it was well past midnight. He felt bad, bad for being rude to him, bad for worrying him, bad for everything he caused John to feel scared and not in control.

When he entered the flat, he didn’t walk straight to his room, but instead checking in John’s first to make sure he was here and okay. Sherlock nudged the door open and peered inside. He saw the silhouette of John’s body in the darkness, chest rising and falling rhythmically. Sherlock sighed in relief to know at least John didn’t leave him as he had left John.

As he walked back into the main room of the flat, Sherlock thought about recovery. Recovery for John’s sake.

 _But you’re not thin enough,_ said the voice in the back of his head, _recovery isn’t necessary yet!_

 _But I’m hurting John! I hate hurting him,_ he retorted to himself.

_It isn’t necessary yet! You’re still fat! You’re still not thin!!_

Sherlock sank down in his chair, his face in his hands. He felt the warm tears fall down from his eyes and through his fingers. He thought about how he wasn’t thin like he wanted. He thought of his fat stomach. His fat arms. His fat legs. He thought of his fat body and how he wished so damn desperately to cut all that fat off with a knife. Sherlock cried harder, his crying turning to sobs.

_How pathetic! You can't even hold it together for John! You useless fat son of a bitch! You don’t deserve him! You don’t deserve anything! You don’t deserve food! You don’t deserve a damn thing!_

“I don't, I don't deserve anything…” Sherlock muttered to himself as he rocked himself back and forth in his chair.

The thoughts wouldn’t leave him. The repeated, on a loop. It was like the broken records he found in his father’s closet as a young boy. _Not thin enough. Not thin enough. Not thin enough. Not thin. Not thin. Not thin._

Sherlock curled up in his chair, weeping into his hands like a child.

 

“Sherlock, you okay?” John asked him, waking Sherlock up.

Sherlock didn’t remember last night, not until he asked himself why he was sitting in his chair, and not in his bed.

John looked tired; his eyes looked dark and tired, his hair was messed up from sleeping. John’s hand was on Sherlock’s shoulder, which made Sherlock internally shiver in fear of John touching Sherlock’s fat body.

“I’m fine.” Sherlock replied, standing up and walking towards his own room.

“I...I know you have your own way of doing things, but...I’m not telling you that you _have to_ , but, I think...I think you should let me do something for you.” John followed Sherlock into his room.

“And that is?” Sherlock asked, turning to face John.

“Let me weigh you.” John answered, his face in an expression as if he’s facing the firing squad.

“Weigh me?”

John nodded, carefully. He rocked on his heels and his eyes fell from Sherlock’s.

“Why? Why do you want to weigh me?” Sherlock could feel his throat burning with anxiety. He knew he was underweight, but if John found out, he knew John would force Sherlock into treatment. And saying no would hurt John.

“I-I think you’re becoming...sick.”

“Sick? What do you mean by that?” Sherlock tried to play dumb, tried to act as if he didn’t count every calorie that went past his lips.

“Sherlock, you know I’m a doctor. I see it, when you eat. You look at food as if it’s a bomb about to explode.” John’s eyes met Sherlock’s again. John tried to get his point across without actually having to say it. Without accepting that horrid fact Sherlock might be hurting himself, possibly beyond repair.

“You think I have an eating disorder.” Sherlock said flatly.

John swallowed back tears he didn't realize were forming.

“Yes, Sherlock. I do. And it scares the living hell out of me.”

Sherlock’s breath stopped. He stood still, his eyes fell to the floor to avoid John’s eyes. He knew he would never be able to be weighed if he wanted to continue losing weight. But he also knew he wasn’t just hurting John anymore; he was terrifying him now.

“Please. Please just come with me to the doctors. You don’t have to do anything else, just come with me.”

Tears fell from John’s eyes now. Sherlock could feel tears in his own eyes start to form as he forced his eyes to meet John’s.

 

“I’m glad you agreed to come with me.” John offered conversation, which Sherlock did not take up on. They were sitting in a cab, driving towards the doctors. John had made an appointment for Sherlock with a mental disorder specialist two days after he had confronted Sherlock about his lack of eating and his losing weight. The only reason Sherlock had agreed to go with John to see the doctor was because John had gently forced him to. He never would have gone if it was up to him.

Empty silence filled the cab for what seemed like days but was probably only a few minutes.

“I won’t be mad if you’re underweight, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s okay. I’ll help you as much as I can.” John rested his hand on top of one of Sherlock’s crossed arms.

“And when the scales tells you I’m overweight you’ll be disgusted.” Sherlock muttered to himself. The ebony-haired man looked out the cab window as they passed through London. He hated John pitying him like he was a child.

 

“Thank you for meeting with us.” John shook that doctor’s hands as they both sat down in his office.

“Yes, and this is your husband I assume, Mr. Watson?” the doctor gestured to Sherlock.

They were in a rather large office that smelled dimly of rubbing alcohol and old books. The doctor was a middle-aged woman named Ellen Collins, not much older than Sherlock and John, probably. She had dark blonde hair that was tucked in a bun on the back of her head and glasses that were resting on top of her head. She had a rather serious air about her.

Sherlock wanted to bolt straight out of her office and into the oncoming traffic outside. He sat, again looking out a window, with his arms crossed in front of him. Sherlock had made sure to wear more layers to hide all the fat he was yet to lose. He hated that part of his disorder; he knew he was thinner than most people his height and age, but he still saw himself as nothing but fat.

“No, no, we’re not together...like that. Not that it’s not okay! Just...we’re not…” John gave an awkward reply. He wrung his hands together nervously as he waited for Dr. Collins to say something.”

Sherlock hated when John denied any romantic relationship between them. It made him feel invalid and quite honestly like he didn’t matter to John. He didn’t know if he was in love with the ex-war doctor, but he knew that he hated seeing him with other women.

“Oh, sorry for making an assumption.” Dr. Collins apologized as she thumbed through a few forms on her desk.

“It’s fine. People usually think that about us for some reason.” John was so painfully noticeably nervous, which Sherlock found a bit hilarious since John had been a doctor, and now here he is, a nervous wreck in a doctor’s office.

“Now, I have come to understand, Mr. Holmes, that you have something of an eating disorder.”

“Quite the deduction.” Sherlock scoffed, turning his head from the window and to face the doctor.

“You friend, Mr. Watson, phoned me saying he thinks you’re underweight and that you show symptoms of anxiety around food. Can you talk to me about that?” she ignored the man’s comment.

Sherlock said nothing, but instead glared at her.

“Sherlock, please describe how you feel when you’re near food. For me?” John placed his hand on Sherlock’s bobbing knee.

“Fine.” Sherlock spat, still glaring at Dr. Collins.

“I feel angry. I feel out of control. Is that what you want to hear?” Sherlock clenched his teeth. He hated how he felt scared of food. People always think anorexia or orthorexia or any other eating disorder was for teenage girls, not men. He hated how they would probably laugh at him for having a “females’ illness”, so it surprised him a bit when he heard the doctor’s answer.

“Okay, I see.” she answered calmly.

“Do you have rituals before or after you eat? Like, do you have to have a certain amount of time between each meal?” she asked after a stretch of silence.

“Five hours.” Sherlock gritted his teeth. Why did John have to be present to hear this? Why did he have to see how vulnerable Sherlock Holmes actually is?

“Have you found yourself binge-eating after restricting very tightly for several days?” Collins had started to write a few notes on a piece of paper in front of her.

“Possibly.” Sherlock hated the answer almost as much as he hated those nights where he found himself in the kitchen after eating dinner, looking for food to eat even though he had already eaten dinner.

“Okay. Now, Mr. Holmes, would you please take off your coat and shoes and step of this scale here.” she stood up and walked to a corner of her office where a scale and BMI scale sat.

Sherlock abided and removed his coat and shoes. He heard the soft _clunk!_ as the small weights he had snuck in his coat pockets hit the plastic seat he had sat in, cursing to himself how he should have hidden them in his pants pockets instead, and gave it to John.

“Could you also take off a few of your jumpers? I want a rough estimate of your weight, but still as accurate as I can get and still be an estimate.” Dr. Collins tried to look sincere.

Sherlock slid off two of the three sweaters he had on, which he noticed had become a bit baggy since he started restricting.

As he stepped on the scale he could hear his heart pounding out of his chest. He closed his eyes in hope that the number wouldn't be too high. He couldn’t bare to see the number on the scale

“Oh.” Dr. Collins wrote the number down.

Sherlock forced his eyes open to see a number he was not expecting: 120 lbs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I always disappear. I wrote some of this after a mini-food-binge (it was 400-600 calories if you were wondering) and I feel so freaking gross but whatever. Mental illnesses are great lol

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I should apoligise because this is going to be one hell of an angsty series


End file.
